Not the Beard!
by aotearoan
Summary: Beards, and their impact on various members of the Fellowship. Ch 4: Teenage Aragorn comes to terms with his difference from the Rivendell elves, but can they? Ch 3: Young Gimli meets a human... something is missing. Ch 2: Young hobbits meet the mysterious Gandalf. Havoc is wreaked. Ch 1: A terrifying ordeal for a young Legolas (also starring Thranduil).
1. Legolas

A dark moment from Legolas' childhood. Not your usual Angsty!Legolas. More character studies on the theme of beards may be forthcoming (depending on the reviews hint hint).

**Not the Beard!**

"We think he'll be a great warrior."

Gandalf's lips quirked at Thranduil's retreating back: the usually intimidating king was chattering like a hobbit about his new son. Musing over the strange effect new children seemed to have on formerly sensible adults, Gandalf missed most of what Thranduil said next, until the phrase "gnawing through a table leg" caught his attention.

"Why, the other day, he ate a whole spider."

"Oh, really?"

"Not a _talking_ spider, of course, only a few inches across… but we didn't have to give him dinner. Just think what he'll be like when he grows up!"

_Legolas_, that was a bit of a hippy name, Gandalf thought disapprovingly. Might as well have called him _Treehugger_ and be done with it. The child would never amount to anything with a name like _that. _Should have let me name him.

Thranduil's happy boasts floated back to Gandalf from the hallway as he went to fetch the elfling from his nap. "It was-" Thranduil kept talking, seemingly unaware he'd left the wizard's field of hearing. Gandalf couldn't catch what he was saying for a minute or two- something about _chewing_ and _teethmarks_, then he heard Thranduil say "in the _dahlias!_" rather emphatically.

"Here he is, the evil little sod", Thranduil said with great affection, re-entering the room with his tiny son in his arms. The elfling was rubbing his eyes crossly.

Thranduil proudly deposited the squirming toddler in front of Gandalf. "This is Legolas. He's already extremely brave!"

"Yes, you said." Gandalf regarded the elfling. He wasn't _cute_, he reminded himself gruffly. It was just a trick of small things that they sometimes appeared that way. Nevertheless, he knew he had a knack of befriending children of all races and all ages, and rather looked forward to making friends with Thranduil's latest.

"Hello", he said.

Legolas stopped rubbing his eyes and regarded the wizard's knees solemnly. Then his eyes travelled up, his small face crumpled, and he screamed like a Nazgul.

"That's his warcry", Thranduil insisted. He tried to sound cheery, as if he wasn't wincing with his hands over his ears. "He's really very brave".

Legolas' actions did not bear this out. He turned and buried his face against his father's legs, wailing. Thranduil began to feel tears soaking through to his kneecaps. "Yes, quite filled with courage," Gandalf muttered sardonically. He was confused and rather put out. He lifted the small elf up gently, so that they could regard each other at eye level, and he smiled in a kind way.

Legolas was not impressed. He kicked, he cried, and he leant as far away from Gandalf's face as he could. "Daddy!" he demanded. "SAVE ME!"

"Hmmm…" said Gandalf. "I must say, I've never had a child react quite so vehemently to me before…"

Thranduil was equally confused. His small son never usually reacted in such a manner when he met new people, even quite tall ones, and though he'd not left Mirkwood before he'd met a large number of different elves without distress.

"I think I'd better take him away to calm him down", he said, half apologetic and half suspicious.

Back in the nursery, Legolas asked through tears about the hairy monster that was eating the stranger's face. "It won't eat _my _face, will it?" he sobbed.

Understanding dawned. Thranduil smiled, and tried to explain. "No, you see, it is like the hair on our heads…" Thranduil gave up this line of argument when Legolas clutched the hair on his own head in sudden terror. "It is not a monster, but something that grows out of his chin…"

Legolas grabbed desperately at his own face. He nearly went cross-eyed trying to watch his chin for sudden attacks. But even if he could _see_ his face, how could he prevent the hairy monster from chewing through the skin there? The monster came from inside! This was far more terrifying and dangerous than monsters under the bed or in the dark woods, those could be guarded against through vigilance, threatened by siblings with wooden swords.

Outside the room, Gandalf winced as fresh wails broke out. "What on Middle Earth was all that about?" he pondered, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

"How did you first meet Gandalf, Legolas?" Merry asked innocently, while the Fellowship listened to the elves of Lorien mourning Gandalf's death.

"I have not the heart to tell you." Legolas said evasively, in what he considered a mysterious, yet mournful, voice. "For me the grief is still too near." Feeling expectant eyes still on him, Legolas felt forced to continue.

"It was… a dark time in my life." What would satisfy the hobbits, and protect his pride? "A terrifying event," he settled for. "I do not wish to relive it".

Merry opened his mouth to ask more, but uncharacteristically, Gimli shushed him. Usually happy to mock the elf for any weakness, real or perceived, now he had to admit to himself (if not to anyone else) that Legolas was a brave warrior. If he could not bear to talk of it, whatever Legolas had faced at the time of his first meeting with Gandalf must have been dark and dangerous indeed.

"I think we've all had enough dark thoughts for one day", Gimli said. "Leave the elf alone". _Even if he is a bit of a tree-hugger_, he added to himself.

***

I've had this plotbunny bouncing around in my head for a while, but what reminded me to put it online was a lovely moment in Thundera Tiger's _Fear no Darkness_ where Sam's daughter Elanor meets Gimli.


	2. Merry, Sam and Pippin

_A/N I do not own Tolkien's work. This is very silly and unrealistic, I know. _

"It's some kind of plant", Sam insisted. "We should water it for him. It doesn't look healthy."

They considered this. Pippin looked up from his jam tarts, which he was busily smearing across his cheeks, forehead and hair. "No," he said finally. "It's… it's…." But he could come up with no answer to the mystery. He dived back into his plate, Tookish curiousity still nagging him.

"I think it's dangerous," said Merry, trying to sound like the sensible, grown-up Hobbit he thought he was, at least in comparison with young Pippin. "We might need to combat it." Merry read a lot, and used words like 'combat' which he half-hoped the other hobbits would have to ask him to explain, although he also knew he'd have to be pretty vague if he did attempt a definition.

"Why do we need to combat it if it's just a plant?" Sam asked sensibly, annoying Merry somewhat by using the difficult word casually. Pippin looked up again, having heard Sam's question in between finishing the jam tarts and beginning the muffins.

"What's 'combat' mean, Sam? Merry! That's MY muffin! You_ know_ the raisin ones are mine."

"Fight." Sam said, and Merry added, rather indistinctly, "That's what you get for not sharing." He was just about to start boasting about the dangers of the Old Forest and show that plants did in fact need to be combatted, but was interrupted.

They heard footsteps going past the kitchen, and waited for them to go past. Bag End was a great place to visit for the young Hobbits, a place where adventures were recounted thrillingly, around the fireplace, discipline was lax and Bilbo made free with the home baking. Nonetheless, they _probably_ shouldn't be eating quite as much as tomorrow's special afternoon tea as they were, especially as Gandalf – a very important visitor and subject of their current conversation- had arrived and was no doubt looking forward to it.

They had heard much about Gandalf, but they did not expect his face to be attached to such a large amount of grey hair. This required discussion, discussion required food. Food tasted better if mildly illicit.

"If it is a plant… " Merry began, reluctantly. "How could we water it anyway? He's _really tall_."

Sam shrugged, because his mouth was full. After a moment's frantic chewing, he managed to get out "wait for him to sit down?" He swallowed and continued "but we could just give him the watering can and he could do it himself?"

"Then why hasn't he done it already?" Merry asked.

"Probably doesn't know much about gardening."

"He knows about everything!" Pippin cried, in outrage at the slight against this semi-mythical figure.

"Then why does his face-plant look so ill?" Sam countered. 

"I'm still not sure it's even a plant."

"Maybe it's _edible_," Pippin suggested hopefully. It was a big word for a little hobbit, but Pippin knew it. In fact, many young hobbits learned it early.

"We could just ask him…" Merry pondered this, but backed away from it hastily. "No, I don't think so." No shame in it if they knew he was intimidated. Gandalf _was _intimidating. He was tall and crackled with power. He was like some kind of natural phenomenon; a storm or a huge oak tree.

Pippin frowned. His curiousity was as insatiable as his appetite, neither impeded the other, and he was used to both being satisfied on demand. "What is it then?" he said with the beginnings of complaint in his voice. "And where is the toast?"

"You have to _make_ toast, Pip," Merry said authoritatively to avoid the question he could not answer. "You make it out of bread." Then inspiration struck him. "Gandalf… maybe he's a dwarf!"

"A dwarf? Like in Bilbo's adventure?"

"Yes, you know, they looked like that- they had far too much hair on their chins, and were tall."

Sam considered this. It seemed to make sense. Dwarves _were_ tall. Then Sam had a brave thought.

"Let's try it out."

"What? How?" Pippin asked excitedly, bouncing up and down on the kitchen table, on to which he had climbed for better access to the butter.

Sam thought about it. "You know… I could accidentally spill water on him, to see if it helps his face-plant grow green and healthy. Merry- you could be ready to tackle the face-plant if things go wrong. Take something heavy – a pot or something, to use as a weapon. If it's not a plant, it might try and make a dash for it. Pippin- you…" If Pippin did not have his own job to do, he would sulk ferociously.

"Pippin, you must try to take a bite out of the face-plant, to see if it's edible."

"All right. As I am very brave," Pippin agreed.

"Stop calling it a face plant! I don't think it's a plant at all," Merry grumbled.

Footsteps went past again, but this time paused at the kitchen door and came in. They had time only to guiltily take in what they looked like- the afternoon tea was either in their stomachs or covering Pippin, there was a buttery footprint on the tablecloth, and Merry's enthusiasm with the spoon (used to emphasise points he was making) had resulted in jam decorating the curtains- before Frodo was facing them all.

"Er…" said Sam, feeling mortified. His gaffer would not be pleased about this. "Hello."

"Fwodo!" said Pippin. This was a lisp he did not possess: he found regressing a year or two to be useful in an attempt to cute his way from trouble, and he did it automatically here even though it only worked on certain quavery great aunts and uncles. "Merry and Sam were being very naughty."

Merry glanced at the mess, at his older cousin, and then decided that he might as well push ahead and make things worse. Frodo was soft, anyway.

"What's wrong with Gandalf's face, Frodo?" 

Frodo seemed taken back, so they told him all their doubts and theories. His mouth quirked slightly, as if he was trying to suppress a laugh.

"I think…" Frodo said, "That you should try out all your experiments, like Sam said. Gandalf's here now, he's chatting to Bilbo in the sitting room."

He knew this was wicked of him, but it would also be very effective and would also make him feel better that he would not be tasting the blackberry pie he had spent a couple of hours making that morning.

"All right," Merry said firmly. "We'll do it."

And with this, the three young hobbits, one with a pail of water, one with a heavy saucepan, marched bravely into the sitting room.

Steam began to billow out of the door to the sitting room not long after this. It smelt rather of gunpowder. Frodo heard shouts, and then Pippin's voice screaming "Pepper! My mouth is on fire!" Merry sailed past him and landed at the far end of the corridor, a surprised look on his face, and was soon followed by a very bent out of shape saucepan which smashed a window. Frodo ducked as several green sparks shot over his head. Then Pippin hurtled past him spitting hair. Sam, it later emerged, had fled in the steam that billowed from Gandalf when the water hit him, and was not seen for two days until his worried parents found him camping out in their attic. Pippin, confusedly associating various events from that fateful day, refused to ever eat toast again. Merry was very quiet for nearly a week, and burst into tears at his first sight of a dwarf, two years later. He had nightmares for a month, and was heard to shout 'not the beard!" in his sleep.

Frodo had a peaceful evening eating crumpets and bandaging various scrapes. For months after, threatening young hobbits with the Beard was the most effective way to get them to go to bed, stop talking now, or stop pushing younger cousins into puddles.

The hero status Merry, Pippin and Sam acquired among the neighbourhood's children was in Frodo's opinion entirely undeserved, and as he reflected years later in Rivendell at the start of his Quest, had clearly only encouraged them.


	3. Gimli

Sorry for the long delay in posting!

This came out fluffy rather than funny, but ah well, here it is.

It takes place pre-Hobbit. Gimli is maybe four in human years.

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Gimli looked up. And up. And further up. His helmet fell off with a clang on the marble floor of the entry hall.

It was his first helmet and he was very proud of it, but he was currently so bewildered by the stranger that he did not even notice.

There was something about the person that deeply unsettled him, and he didn't know what it was. He stared worriedly up. From here, the human looked like a pinkish blob balanced on long stalky legs.

Something was missing.

What were they called again? _Mans? Mens?_

This Man was the first Gimli had seen, and he wanted to observe him carefully. They rarely came to the Blue Mountains, and he might not get another chance to view one up close for a long time. This Man was a trader from Bree who was waiting to get the receipts for a delivery of pipeweed. He didn't know what pipeweed was, or Bree, but now he knew what a Man was, and he wasn't sure he liked it.

Something was wrong. He hadn't worked out what, yet, but something was very wrong with this Man. He felt a deep mistrust take root inside him. But what? What was it? What was missing?

His father, Gloin, put a reassuring hand on his young son's shoulder. He knew Men were strange and unnatural, but unlike many Dwarves he thought it would do Gimli good to be exposed to the outside world at a young age. He wondered what his own father, Gimli's grandfather, would have said. He probably would have disapproved of introducing his grandson to Men. Almost as bad as Orcs, after all.

Gloin's own father has been traditional, reserved and suffered from Post-Traumatic Dragon Disorder. Because of this he had not wanted Gloin to leave the Mountains and even felt uncomfortable about Gloin visiting the surface. But Gloin was an adventurous Dwarf, and he wanted to share that with his son.

'Never tilt your head up, Gimli,' he advised. 'If you're looking at someone tall, just move your eyes. They'll respect you, then.'

The trader sighed and scratched his bare chin impatiently. He wanted to begin his return journey. He quite liked dwarves, and made an effort to dress his best for his trade visits, knowing the value Dwarves placed on formality. He'd made an effort: he was clean-shaven and wearing his best shirt, which itched. He knew a bit of Dwarven etiquette, the correct response to greetings and so forth, but he was sick of standing around underground and wanted to be off home. Dwarves and their obsession with receipts and documentation! What was taking them so long? He and Gloin were running out of polite conversation while a party of serious Dwarven negotiators weighed the pipeweed he'd brought.

Still, Gloin was a good chap (for a dwarf) and would be sure to see he got a mug of ale before he left.

He glanced down at Gloin's son, who had at least stopped hiding behind his father. A worried little face peered back up at him, half-obscured by beard and frowning. The trader smiled. He had children, and wasn't offended that this little dwarf was looking at him with a mixture of trepidation and concern. Men must seem very big, after all.

Gloin noticed his glance. 'This is Gimli,' he said proudly. 'Takes after his mother.'

'At your service,' said the trader, kneeling down next to the tiny dwarf. He was probably about his own son's age, but half the size and twice as hairy, of course.

Gimli didn't answer, but took a nervous step backwards and collided with his father with a clang.

'Gimli, say hello,'

Gimli turned to his father and mumbled something. Gloin pushed him gently forward. 'Go on, like we practiced!'

'Daddy!' Gimli said in panic, scrambling away from the man. 'No!'

'What is it, son? What's the matter?'

Gimli burst into tears. He buried his face in his father's beard. His reply was incoherent.

'Gimli?'

The sobbing continued.

Gloin winced.'Gimli, lad? What's wrong?'

Gimli was small, but he had a powerful set of lungs. Gloin hoped he'd calm down soon: He didn't think the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains could handle another tantrum so soon after the Incident with the Broken Toy Axe. Even Thorin would never be the same again. Balin had said something about trying to return to Moria, 'which would be peaceful, after your son,' and Gloin was only half-sure he was joking.

'Gimli... Tell Daddy.'

'What's wrong with his FACE?' Gimli finally howled. 'WHAT HAPPENED TO HIS FACE?'

Maybe his father had been right, Gloin considered, patting his weeping son and apologising to the trader. Maybe Dwarves shouldn't have anything to do with the outside world. 

He was a little disappointed. He'd hoped Gimli would see a bit more of the many peoples of Middle Earth than most Dwarves. But he obviously took after his grandfather.


	4. Aragorn

_A riff on Angsty Teenage!Aragorn and superiority complex elves, in which Aragorn is a teenager living in Rivendell. There will be one final chapter to this Beard series after this. _

_I should formally apologise to the Tolkien estate for wreaking havoc upon their characters, timelines, settings and canon in general, which I do not own or claim to own. _

_Apologies also to my readers for my long absence. Like Bilbo, I promise I am not dead, so please do not sell off all of my spoons._

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Aragorn snuck another glance in the mirror. Yes, there was something there. Just a faint shadow, but it would grow.

He tilted his jaw sideways. He tilted it back. He glanced behind him in case of lurking elves on silent feet, then furtively stroked his own face.

Yes!

It _wasn't_ wishful thinking. There was something – very slight, no more than down really, but there. He turned side-on to accentuate the stubble, and admired it.

It suited him. If he half-closed his eyes and moved the candle in just the right way, and wore that one really bulky coat, he could almost convince himself that he was not just tall, but broad and muscular. The stubble definitely helped.

It had been hard growing up surrounded by elves. He had always felt like an outsider. That feeling increased in his teenage years, when he suddenly shot up and became all elbows and angles, gangly and awkward. When he was fourteen he knocked his dinner plates off the table almost as often as not. He had so many memories of elves floating serenely past him, graciously pretending not to notice the wreckage on the floor, while he knelt in salad and picked up cutlery.

Also, there were no girls of his own age (or even his species), it was impossible to keep secrets around such keen eyes and ears, and a wild Saturday night in Rivendell involved a vegetarian snack followed by seven hours of poetry. How could that be anyone's idea of _fun?_

And then there was the hygiene. He'd never understand that obsession.

But the worse thing - even worse than the poetry and the enforced vegetarianism and the soap – the worse thing was the pity.

Everything about him that was different, that was mortal, that was _who he was_, attracted the _pity _of the elves.

It was hard, growing up surrounded by so many superiority complexes. It was harder not to internalise it, and for a long time he even felt sorry for _himself. _But the stubble had changed all that.

For as long as he could remember, Elrond had insisted on gazing sorrowfully at him when he thought Aragorn wasn't looking. He knew this was because Elrond's twin brother, Elros, had chosen to be a mortal.

But that was the whole point! He'd _chosen. _He'd _wanted _to be mortal. Mortal like Aragorn. Probably because of the excellent beards.

Being mortal wasn't something to be pitied. Aragorn had always known that, deep down. Now the first straggly hairs had appeared on his chin, he felt it stronger than ever.

_This_ was who he was born to be.

He grinned, and lovingly patted the emerging stubble, before wandering out for a stroll in the sunshine. He had to ensure the fledgling beard stayed healthy. He hoped he would accidentally bump into Elrond. Elrond would be very impressed.

He silenced a nagging thought that it was insensitive to flaunt his new stubble in front of a race of people whose chins were cold and beardless.

Who cared? Let them be jealous of _him _for once.

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'I worry, you know,' Elrond said, worriedly. Erestor rolled his eyes: Of _course _Elrond was worried; that was his job.

'I'm sure he feels very out of place. Remember the trouble we had with the pimples?'

'Yes, you shouldn't have let Legolas convince him they were the first sign of decay,' Lindir chipped in.

'I didn't _let _him!' Elrond snapped. 'I didn't _let _Estel go to Mirkwood in the first place. I never _let _people do things like that. It's just that nobody ever listens to me!' Sulkiness crept into his tone.

'What? Anyway, maybe if he's lucky he won't be one of those particularly hairy men.'

Elrond shuddered. 'He already is.'

'Poor kid,' said Erestor, returning to his favourite topic of conversation. 'Must be rough, growing up human in Imladris. You'd feel so… so smelly,'

'And clumsy,' Lindir added. Both elves preened. '_Poor _Estel.'

'Yes, imagine having _hairs _on your _face.' _They shuddered smugly. Elrond glared at them, eyebrows lowered pointedly.

'Best not to mention it at all.'

'Not mention it at all? … Yes, you're right,' said Elrond, in relief, who'd been dreading broaching the subject.

'Just ignore it, until it goes away.'

'I don't think beards _do _go away,' Elrond sunk back into gloom. 'I think maybe they just keep growing.'

Lindir felt deeply sorry for humans, although he had to admit he'd feel sorrier for them if they were more sensitive to their condition. If he were a human he'd spend his whole short life feeling incredibly embarrassed and avoiding mirrors. Yet some humans seemed to live quite normal lives!

Really, it would be almost as bad as being a wood-elf.

'Poor Estel,' he said again.

'Poor Estel? Poor me!' said Elrond. 'You know what this means, don't you?'

They looked blank.

'Angst!'

'Angst?'

'So much angst!'

Elrond's vaults of patience were starting to crack. 'You wouldn't _believe _the amount of angst I have had to put up with. Did you know how _hard _it is to grow up the only mortal among elves? I do. I know all about it! Estel must have told me sixty times!'

'He did go on a bit,' said Erestor. 'But he's older now.'

'You'd think I'd suffered enough in my life, wouldn't you? But _no, _the tearful diary entries, the moody sighing…'

'Well, you shouldn't have been reading his diary– '

Elrond ignored the graceless interruption. 'If it's not mortality, it's that he feels _lonely_. Not that anyone _else _could possibly know anything about losing their family!' Elrond was rarely sarcastic or bitter, so Lindir and Erestor thoroughly enjoyed the moments he was.

'If it's not being lonely, it's his _destiny _that is suddenly _weighing him down_. I mean, _naturally _the responsibility of a whole kingdom and the hopes of the entire race of Men are too much for him. He can't even accept the responsibility of making his bed.'

The others' frantic eyebrow waggling and hissing finally drew Elrond's attention to steps coming down the hall. Aragorn's steps. Even his footsteps sounded sort of slouchy and sulky. Elrond didn't know how he managed that.

Luckily, Aragorn, being mortal, hadn't overheard them. He slouched into the room. Elrond overcompensated wildly.

'Estel! My favourite foster-son!' Elrond desperately maintained eye-contact, all the better to ignore the stubble. 'Good morning!'

'Morning,' said Aragorn, in place of his usual grunt.

'Oh Eru, something's wrong,' Elrond hadn't meant to say it out loud, but his foster-son never greeted people in the mornings anymore. Not since he'd left his sunny childhood ways behind.

'What's wrong?' Aragorn sprawled on the delicately carved stone bench, resting his boots on a statue of Lindir's favourite ancestor. Lindir's badly concealed wince amused him. Aragorn had already walked casually round half the gardens hoping to accidentally bump into Elrond. His boots were very muddy.

'Oh nothing, nothing.'

'You worry too much,' Aragorn said, jerking his chin at him to emphasise his point.

Elrond snapped his eyes away from the chin, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.

'Get your beard - I mean boots - off that statue,' he said, flustered. Lindir giggled nervously.

Elrond closed his eyes in embarrassment. Poor Estel. Now he was sure to feel even more self-conscious. Aragorn had probably not noticed it yet, and he'd just stupidly brought it to his attention.

But Aragorn looked bright and cheerful, for once. Elrond relaxed. Aragorn must have missed his slip of the tongue.

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Tense weeks followed. On strict instructions from Elrond, everyone studiously avoided any mention of Aragorn's new stubble. Nobody looked at his face more than they could help, and if they did, their gaze hovered somewhere around Aragorn's forehead.

Elrond skulked in his study, shredding bits of the curtain and biting his once-perfect nails, waiting on the edge of his nerves for the Angst he knew would come.

Aragorn was annoyed at first. There was only so many subtle ways he could try and drop beards into the conversation. He couldn't keep saying 'I moustache you a question,' without it becoming screamingly obvious. His beard was noticeable now. You didn't need to peer closely at the mirror to see it anymore. The first few strands of chin-hairs, the pioneers, had multiplied. He was burdened with glorious beard.

Then he realised: the Elves were pretending not to notice his beard on purpose.

They were jealous. Aragorn's beautiful new beard was too much for them. Their collective superiority complex was probably in tatters. Likely, they were going through painful identity crises, Aragorn thought with mixed compassion and glee.

Imagine staring down the centuries, forever beardless!

No _wonder _elves hated dwarves so much. Aragorn snickered.

He wondered if he should shave off his beard, to make his presence easier on the poor, fragile elves he lived with. He knew what happened when elves cracked. They'd probably start slaughtering each other over jewels and marine transport. Or he'd find them hiding in the laundry basket, weeping piteously, as Lindir had been found back when Aragorn had tried to teach himself the lute. Three days, he'd been missing. It had been like a small holiday.

Aragorn glanced down at the polished surface of his writing-desk. The Beard's reflection made him smile. Yes, he would shave. But not yet.

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Elrond was deep in despair and his second glass of wine.

'Come on, what's the matter?' Erestor made his voice kindly and gentle. 'Did Galadriel say something mocking again?'

'Worse,' Elrond gestured to Aragorn's diary with a shaking hand, spilling wine on the table beside it. On the open page a single line was scrawled, the last line of the journal entry that had sent Elrond into this state. It was written in a boyish hand that Erestor recognised. He'd seen it the last time Elrond had had a little episode over his foster son.

It read: _in fact,_ _I've started to feel really sorry for Elves_ _in general._

Wordlessly, Erestor poured himself some of the wine.

'Denial,' he said.

'So much denial,' Elrond agreed. 'Denial could be very bad for his fragile state.' He finished his second glass and poured a third.

'Poor Estel'.


End file.
